Hawkeye Takes a Shot in the Dark
by Dawnstorm101
Summary: (Modern-ish Psych AU) Santa Barbara's resident fake psychic detective Hawkeye Pierce is used to winding up in tight situations. He always manages to wriggle out of it, though. Until now. This time, it turns into a race against time to save his life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this is my first attempt at a combining shows type of AU, and I'm v new to writing for M*A*S*H, so my bad if anything's terribly OOC or weird or anything... Basically just bear with me. I hope y'all enjoy this!

* * *

 _ **1989**_

Behind the house, Hawkeye waited for his dad to open the trunk of his ugly beige car. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said, reaching for the first bag of groceries within. He'd been given _yet another_ How Many Hats In The Room quiz while shopping, and being off by a grand total of _two_ was apparently enough to convince his old man he needed even more pop quizzes. "But since when did bandanas count as hats? I was close."

"Close doesn't cut it anymore, Hawkeye," Dad said, leaning very unhelpfully on the car. He wore his officer uniform, his Potter-Pierce name badge glinting in the midday sunlight, ready to go on patrol after this. "You're going soft on me."

Hawkeye set the first bag down by the back steps and leaned in for another. "You know I'm 11, right?"

"It's not some bar trick, Hawkeye," Dad insisted. "This is about survival – knowing how many hats are in the room may very well save your life one day. Now pay attention."

Hawkeye's shoulders slumped. _Great. Another lesson._

"Today, we're learning about worst-case scenarios," Dad went on.

-SBPD-

 _ **Present Day (Meaning 2009)**_

B.J. stood in the storage yard, still wearing his pajama shirt, but he'd thrown on day pants and a trench coat, wondering why he was here. The only connection he was getting was the ice cream truck to his right – unfortunately empty of ice cream, he had already checked. Nothing else here seemed to have anything to do with their case – a bunch of rusty everyday cars, an armored truck, some heavy machinery... His tiny, carefully maintained, bright blue hatchback Echo stuck out like a sore thumb amidst it all.

He heard footsteps, and looked up to see Margaret and Winchester walking across the gravel to join him. Winchester's brand new, deep blue Crown Victoria Police Interceptor that he'd been bragging about for days was now parked next to B.J.'s car.

"B.J.!" Margaret greeted. The two detectives, B.J. noticed, had been smart enough to change completely out of their pajamas, Margaret in a black suit and Winchester in grey. Odd. Normally it was the other way around - Margaret adored her grey pantsuits. "We got down here as soon as we could, are you all right?"

"Yeah," B.J. answered.

Winchester, of course, spoke up in utter irritation before they could finish exchanging pleasantries. Or _start_ doing that, really. "You two had better have a very good reason for dragging me out of my bed and down here to Nowheresville at 4:30 in the morning. Where the hell is Pierce?"

B.J. shrugged. He wanted to be annoyed at his lifelong best friend, but concern was beginning to push out any irritation he'd felt at being awoken so early. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"If I wanted to make guesses, I would go on a game show," Winchester groused. "What the hell is going on?"

"Look, all I know is he left me this message about an hour ago..."

He held up his phone, clicking play on Hawk's voicemail. _"Beej, I figured it out! It's sweet – this whole thing was just a rehearsal. I'm leaving my place, meet me down at the storage yard_ now _. Come in your fireman PJs if you have to, just be there."_

"What does that mean, 'rehearsal'?" Margaret asked.

"I have no idea," B.J. said, worry creeping into his voice. The detectives were here – Hawk could show off his "psychic" prowess and solve the case in his usual dramatic fashion. So where was he?

-SBPD-

Hawkeye grimaced as the car ran over a series of bumps, jostling him against the walls of the trunk. Agony stabbed through his left shoulder, but he ignored it, focusing instead on his hands, duct taped behind his back. This was great, just _great_ , this was _just_ his luck.

It wasn't often Hawkeye regretted lying about being a psychic. It was certainly better than being stuck in jail because the cops thought his keen observations were actually insider info. And while it could occasionally be difficult, coming up with and keeping track of a convincing enough web of lies to keep the cops fooled, he wouldn't give up solving cases for the world at this point. Piecing together the clues, the rush of announcing he'd solved the case, working with B.J. and Margaret, annoying the absolute crap out of Winchester… It was the only thing he had enjoyed doing long enough to make a career of it.

But sometimes, that career landed him, quite literally, in dark, painful situations.

The memory was hazy, far hazier than his eidetic memory was used to, but still it haunted him as he worked the tape.

 _"Hey, what are you doing here?" the bad guy demanded, gun pointed straight at Hawkeye. That damn gun, and there was no Winchester, no Margaret, not even B.J. to try distracting him. How_ stupid _he'd truly been this time._

Getting to the clues before Winchester and solving the case in front of him was probably the most fun part of solving cases. Getting the detective all riled up never got old, even if he had given up on stopping the Winny nickname years ago. But right now, Hawkeye really, _really_ wished _he_ had gotten there first.

 _I need to… need to call someone._

If he could just reach his phone…

-SBPD-

 _ **1989**_

"All right, here we go," Dad said after all of the groceries were settled on the back steps. He pointed at the car's open trunk. "How do you escape when you're locked in the trunk of a car?"

"'When'?" Hawkeye echoed skeptically. "Don't you mean _if_? As in, like, maybe never?"

"Not today, son," Dad said. Without warning, he scooped Hawkeye off the ground, dropping him into the trunk. "Your survival training starts right now."

As the trunk slammed shut, Hawkeye heard a woman gasp. "What are you doing?" Hawkeye demanded. "Dad?"

But Dad was busy saying, "Don't worry, Ms. Nussbaum, everything's fine! Got the keys right here, just teaching Hawkeye a little survival technique. Thank you."

 _Well, you were helpful, Ms. Nussbuam._

"All right, Hawkeye, listen up," Dad continued, patting the trunk. "Now, here's what you wanna do: You want to feel for the brake light. You feel it?" he checked, tapping it from outside. "It's right over here."

Hawkeye wiggled towards the tapping, running his hands along the wall until the texture changed abruptly. "Yes," he called.

"Okay, now what you would do, is you'd kick it out with your feet. You'd want to create a hole so you could look out and see where you are."

It wasn't an explicit order to kick it out right now. But he had been taught to anticipate his dad's orders, and, well, he'd be lying if he said he'd never wanted to kick his dad's hideous car.

So Hawkeye kicked out the brake light.

Daylight flooded into the trunk, accompanied by his dad's yelling. "I didn't say to _actually_ do it, I said you _would_ do it!"

"Whoops," Hawkeye said half-heartedly, smirking broadly.

-SBPD-

 _ **Back To The Present**_

After feeling around with his foot, Hawkeye kicked out the brake light. _Huh. Who know that would ever actually be useful._ Grunting, he wriggled around to peer out. Still night, all right, that was good, he hadn't been out too long. He focused on the markers flashing by – a construction cone, a yellow reflector, a sign with a peace sign graffitied onto it – until a particularly large bump smacked him into the top of the trunk.

"Ow!" he grunted.

But the hit had shaken his phone loose. He tugged it fully free of his back pocket, careful not to drop it as he turned it around. Praying he was hitting the right buttons, he opened the phone app up and scrolled through his contacts, counting the scrolls until… Yes, that one should be B.J.

He clicked, and thankfully it started ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

 _Pick up, damn it._

He tossed it over his shoulder, and it thankfully landed face-up. He stared at it, waiting.

 _"Hawkeye Pierce, what do you want?"_

Hawkeye furrowed his brows at the distinctly feminine voice – not B.J. Crap. "Uh, Bethany! Bethany Bigelow. Wh-" _Why is your number still in my phone? We went on one awful date._ "Hey! Hello."

 _"That's all you have to say for yourself? 'Uh, hello'?"_ Bethany demanded. _"Why did you never call me back?"_ Her tone turned insecure. _"Was it because I had two slices of cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory? Cause if that's it, I've lost a lot of weight since then, I really have."_

"What?" Hawkeye exclaimed. "No. No, and I feel so bad about that, and I want to address it, I do-" _I really don't._ "-but maybe you could do me a little favor here. See, I'm in some trouble, and I need-"

 _"A_ favor _?"_ Crap, she was hostile again. _"How_ dare _you ask me for a favor after what you did to me? I'm sorry, but nobody,_ nobody _treats Bethany Bigelow that way, F.Y.I."_

Famous hang-up words if Hawkeye had ever heard them. And he had. Quite a bit. "Wait, don't-"

 _Click._

Too late.

"It wasn't even the cheesecake," Hawkeye muttered bitterly to the uncaring car trunk. "It was the talking about yourself in the third person."

Well, typing with his nose in a shaking car wasn't going to work. With one final, massive effort that sent searing pain ricocheting through his bleeding shoulder, he tore free of the duct tape with a gasp. They tingled painfully as circulation returned, but he wasted no time, grabbing his phone and all but stabbing B.J.'s name.

"Come on, come on, come on," he whispered, glancing at the low signal warning.

The phone beeped, announcing that the call had failed.

Panic shot through him. He had one phone call, and he'd wasted it on a bitter ex.

He steadied himself with a breath. _Roll with it._

He opened up his texts, typing as quickly as he could.

-SBPD-

B.J.'s phone went off, and he glanced back at it to see a new text. "Wait, this just came in from Hawkeye."

"Read it," Margaret urged.

B.J. just furrowed his brows at it. "I have no idea what this means. 'Trunk yelrfx ocone pol peac sig'."

"What is that?"

"It's gibberish," Winchester said distractedly, looking at something on the ground. He walked towards it, moving past B.J. Under any other circumstances, B.J. might've complained about his uncaring gruffness, but right now, the steady voice might be the one anchor amidst the sea of worry B.J. suddenly found himself floating in.

"Wait, there's more," B.J. said, getting a new text. "'Binshot not lol'."

"What is he talking about?" Margaret asked, leaning over to look at the text.

B.J. shook his head, repeating the text. "Binshot. Binshot, binshot, binshot…"

Margaret looked past him. "What are you playing with over there?" she called to Winchester.

B.J. glanced back, seeing the head detective crouched down, dipping his finger into a splotch of something on the ground. He looked up slowly, all irritation suddenly gone from his voice. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes meeting Margaret's, his tone grim. "It's blood."

 _Blood._

"Binshot," B.J. repeated, changing the pronunciation slightly. And, in conjunction with the blood and Hawkeye's absence, it finally hit him.

 _Been shot._

"Oh my god. Hawk's been shot!"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Tbh I'm pleasantly surprised this got positive reviews, I honestly can't tell if this dialogue sounds in-character cause I've seen this ep a gazillion times or cause it actually fits the MASH characters. I hope I continue to deliver!

* * *

It didn't take long for cops to flood the lot after that. Crime scene tape was put up, evidence markers put down, a crime scene photographer set to work. B.J. had to wait on the sidelines, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet the entire time, until Winchester called him back over to give a rundown.

"Based on the blood patterns and marks on the ground, he was shot here and dragged this way," Winchester surmised, pointing at the original splash of blood and moving deeper into the yard. Now that B.J. looked at it, it was impossible to miss, dark and shining amidst the gravel.

"The blood trail ends here. We couldn't get any useable tread marks, but these swirls in the gravel indicate kickback from a car pulling out of here at a high rate of speed." He held up the sole evidence bag he held. "We recovered a single shell casing – the shooter used a .45 auto."

A car door slammed, and B.J. looked up to see Mr. Potter walking away from his beaten yellow truck. "Who the hell called him down here?" Winchester demanded.

"I did," B.J. said. "It's Hawk's father."

"Which is _exactly_ why I don't want him here," Winchester hissed, stepping over the evidence to glare more closely at B.J. "If Hawkeye really is shot, there will be no room for family in the investigation."

Mr. Potter, for his advanced years, overheard that with no problem whatsoever. "If Hawkeye's been shot, there's no room I won't bust open to find my son. You got it?"

"Sherman, please," Winchester insisted, likely counting on Mr. Potter's police past to get him to bend to regulation. Under normal circumstances, the proud retired cop might've been swayed. But, unfortunately for Winny, Mr. Potter was just as stubborn as his son. Especially when Margaret was on his side.

"Charles, this thing may get personal, we might need him," she pointed out, holding a hand up to calm her partner down.

Mr. Potter waited on the sidelines, shoving his hands into his pockets, his worry visibly weighing him down. Winchester eyed him, pursing his lips, evidently debating the two sides of it. "If we do this, we do this my way, _no questions_."

Mr. Potter straightened up with a shrug, conceding to the terms. Winchester nodded and continued, throwing out sharp orders. "Potter will ride with me – we'll chase the breadcrumbs to find Pierce. Houlihan, you take Hunnicutt to retrace Pierce's steps in whatever ridiculous investigation he got himself into. We have a lot of ground to cover, so let's go. Move out!"

He strode away, ducking past the crime scene tape to get into his beloved new car, Mr. Potter right behind him. B.J. watched them go, hoping they would find something, and _fast_. The idea of Hawkeye being alone and wounded…

He always got himself into trouble. He'd been run off the road, held hostage by a dirty detective, shot at for digging on the wrong property, nearly shot repeatedly with a nail gun by an unsuspecting actress, kidnapped by treasure hunters, purposefully made himself a hostage in a bank to protect B.J.… But he always walked away. Heck, he'd only actually been hurt two of those times, and alone only once.

Hawkeye had never been severely wounded, kidnapped, _and_ alone before. B.J. was almost always right beside him, with Winchester and Margaret in easy reach.

 _Hawk hates being alone._

Margaret turned to him. "Ok, B.J., think hard. What brought Hawkeye down here?"

B.J. scratched his head, thinking back. "All I know is this whole thing started a few days ago, with the ice cream truck on the highway."

-SBPD-

 _ **Still 2009, But Now A Few Days Ago**_

Charles screeched to a halt next to the fire truck. There were already a couple black-and-whites there, beside the overturned, smoking ice cream truck. Officer Radar reached to open the door for him, but he snapped, "Whoa, easy there, Grubbs! Keep those tiny mitts off the car. This is a _brand new_ issued vehicle, I just picked it up, it is cherry, and it is going to stay that way. It's almost too sweet to drive," he finished lovingly.

Radar leaned around the door, sniffing the interior. "Mmm, smells like new car plus lemons."

"Yes, it does," Charles gloated.

"Is that leather?" Radar asked, following him with his usual puppyish excitement.

"Pleather. Closest thing to it, though," Charles corrected as Margaret joined them. "All right, tell me: What do we have here?"

"Uh, it seems to be an accident," Radar started. "The driver was taken to the hospital. He's stable, but unconscious."

Charles stopped, glancing at Margaret, who simply sighed. "So what am I doing here?"

"Well, sir, nobody is sure how the accident happened."

"The key word in that sentence is 'accident'. What are we supposed to do, go to the hospital and wait bedside while the ice cream man comes to? Call me when somebody gets shot or there is a dead body."

"Hey," Margaret said, pointing towards the downed ice cream truck. Where the crime scene photographer was currently photographing Hunnicutt and Pierce making ridiculous faces in a horrible attempt to look cool on either side of an awkwardly smiling firefighter.

"That's it, that's the winner," Hawkeye said, stepping back as Hunnicutt fistbumped the firefighter. "Uh, get a 5x7 of that, and a couple wallet sizes for my buddy here. Thanks."

"What are they doing here?" Charles groaned.

"Maybe the chief called them in," Margaret guessed.

"We are not here to hone in on your case," Pierce assured him as the pair joined the two detectives. "We just heard 'ice cream' on our police radio and it happened to be B.J.'s snack time."

"Well, look, I'll tell you what," Charles said. "You're welcome to it. Have at it. Go for it. Who knows, maybe you'll solve the great ice cream crime caper of the century."

"Crime of the century, huh?" Pierce pondered for a moment. "Eh, still 91 years to solve that one. B.J. and I are gonna pace ourselves. But we accept."

"You know we still have to file the paperwork on the accident, right?" Margaret reminded him.

Charles's smirk at their gullibility vanished in an instant as they returned to the car.

-SBPD-

Hawkeye strode back to the truck. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Hell of a lot of strawberry shortcake bars, destroyed," B.J. said mournfully.

"Before they even had a chance, buddy," Hawkeye sighed. He glanced over the truck one last time, tilting his head as he noticed the suspicious tool marks on the truck's underbelly. They looked like welding marks. But what did they mean?

-SBPD-

 _ **Back To Today-Today**_

Calls failed and texts sent – well, hopefully sent – Hawkeye flopped onto his back. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to look at his shoulder. He touched the bullet hole gingerly, grunting in pain, his fingers coming away coated in hot, sticky blood. He knew there was an exit wound on his back, but he seriously did not feel like contorting to reach it.

He also knew he should try to stop the bleeding, but instead he picked up a crowbar conveniently stashed with him. Pain flaring in his shoulder, he pried the trunk open, grabbing it to keep it from flying completely open to alert the shooter-turned-kidnapper. He peered out, checking the landscape – he could still see the signs he had spotted through the taillight. It was an isolated backroad, woods on either side – no one would be seeing him to call the cops.

Which meant he had to make a run for it. And if he was gonna run, now was the time.

Taking another deep breath, he flung the trunk wide open.

Immediately, the driver started swerving wildly, speeding up in an attempt to deter the escape attempt. Hawkeye gasped at the agony as he slammed into the side of the trunk, but he grabbed the edge and pushed himself up, waiting.

The driver hit the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. The second it was relatively safe, Hawkeye leapt out, staggering from the shock and blood loss. But he pushed through it, bolting into the woods to his left. He heard the car's door slam shut, the kidnapper yelling after him in his distinctive raspy voice.

Hawkeye ran, and ran, and ran. There was a path, thank god, but at the same time, it was too obvious. Too easy for the shooter to catch up. But the untamed woods provided too many chances to snap a twig, too many leaves to crinkle underfoot, too many animals to startle, too many chances to trip.

And if he tripped now, he wasn't at all certain he'd be able to get back up.

-SBPD-

"Has anyone tried tracking Hawkeye's phone?" Potter asked. He sat shotgun in Charles's car. They were parked on the side of the road to avoid pointless driving, and classical musical filtered through the speakers to help Charles concentrate on the text. And to smother the guilt.

 _I gave them this case. I left them to investigate alone. Without backup._

"His GPS must not be working, the technicians can't get a location," Charles answered. The question was hardly a distraction at this point, after the number of times Potter had asked it and its like. But Charles tolerated it, knowing the desperation he must be feeling if he hadn't even argued against having to follow his orders.

He read off the text again. "Ocone yelrfx peac sig- How the hell does he expect us to find him with this cat scratch?"

"Come on, we can do this," Potter insisted, snatching the phone away. Charles pursed his lips. "It's a text, they're abbreviations, that's what you do. You're just out of the loopon what the young people are doing now."

Charles barely kept his jaw from hitting the floor. "'The young people'? Um, fact check, I'm a _little_ younger than you."

"You sure about that?" Potter shot back.

 _Dear god, I might as well have Pierce in the car._

"You are _joking_ , right?" He snatched his phone back. "With all due respect, Potter, I know that you were a good detective. But as I'm still on the force, I am perhaps a _little_ more viable at this point."

"We'll see," Potter said, chuckling. "You know, if you hear them out loud, you could trigger some stuff."

 _I've been doing that, old man._ But with a sigh, he handed the phone back to the retired detective, who immediately set to work. "'Ocone'. Cone. Maybe the 'o' is on its own, maybe it could be its own word. O- outreach, outhouse cone."

Charles furrowed his brows. _You started strong, at least._

He continued undeterred. "Oval cone, orange cone, or- Orange cone. _Construction_. Could this be pertaining to some sort of construction?"

Charles's eyes widened, and he grabbed the phone, turning it towards him. "'Yelrfx'. _Yellow reflector_."

"'Peac sig, peac sig'," Potter went on. "What the hell is a peac sig?"

"I'm not certain," Charles said, "but I do know of a stretch of road on the 166 that's been under construction for more than a month."

"Well, it's worth a shot," Potter said, snapping his seatbelt into place.

 _Time to find this bastard. And make him pay. Because only_ I _am allowed to shoot Hawkeye._

Charles slammed his foot down on the gas.

-SBPD-

B.J. strode into the police department, speed-walking to keep up with Margaret and forgetting to be self-conscious about his pajamas. "Ok, so Hawkeye has a psychic hunch about the ice cream truck being tampered with," she recounted. "Where does that lead you?"

"So, we found out who was servicing those ice cream trucks and decided to pay them a visit the next day…"

-SBPD-

 _ **Back To A Few Days Ago**_

Hawkeye walked into the garage, B.J. a step behind, heading for a guy welding something on the underbelly of an ice cream truck. Sparks flew like a blinding mini display of fireworks, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes. "Whoa, fire in the hole, huh? Hey!"

The welder stopped, stepped out and flipping his mask up – white dude, small round glasses, salt-and-pepper beard. "Can I help you?" he asked in a distinctive raspy voice.

"Oh, I sure hope so," Hawkeye answered emphatically. "I assume you're one of the mechanics that works here at the shop."

"Yeah," he confirmed, coming up to their level and taking the mask off. "Yeah, yeah, I just started. Who are you?"

"My name is Hawkeye Pierce, and this is my associate, Donut Holestein."

B.J. lifted his hand in a wave, faltering as he processed the nickname. Even Hawkeye would admit it was by far one of the oddest, and perhaps lamest, he'd given out in front of a potential witness over the last three and a half years.

"Garth Longmore," the mechanic introduced himself.

"'Garth Longmore'?" Hawkeye echoed. "Now I feel bad, I should've come up with something better for you, Beej."

"Uh, so, uh, what can I do you for?" Longmore asked, maybe a bit too nervously than the situation called for. _It's either newbie jitters, or he's hiding something._ "What do you want?"

"That's a fair question," Hawkeye agreed. "Deserves an answer. Donut, you got anything?"

"Hawkeye," B.J. admonished sharply.

"Mr. Longmore, with a name like Longmore, have you given any thought to getting involved in the adult pictures?"

"Hawkeye!"

"What?"

"Sorry," B.J. apologized for him. "Do you know any reason why a truck may have welding marks underneath it?"

"Without seeing the truck for myself, I wouldn't know for sure," Longmore answered, walking past them, forcing them to follow him. "Um… But, um… Welding's usually used to repair a crack, or reinforce steel that's been compromised in some way. You guys looking for some repairs, or you need a truck, or what?"

Hawkeye started in on what Winchester called his usual nonsense. "I, sir, am starting a new business. I'm going to need to create a vehicle that combines a standard Wienermobile with a Zamboni. Can these two things be welded together into one?"

He was well aware of B.J.'s weirded out, utterly done look, but he rambled on, committing to the spiel. "Uh, the simple mission statement for my venture is to create the perfect juicy wiener and the perfect icy surface to enjoy said wiener on. Now, to be completely frank with you – no pun intended – the majority of my investors have yet to see the brilliance of this business plan."

Longmore stared, bemused.

"Thank you for your time," B.J. said quickly, walking away. The message was clear: This particular tactic wasn't working. If Longmore was the guilty party, he wasn't giving it away. And even if he wasn't, he wasn't being very helpful on the technical front either. Time to admit defeat and try again tomorrow.

"You know what? Hold on to that thought, and I'm gonna- I'm gonna grab one of these pamphlets here, and I'm gonna call you, Garth Longmore, when I'm ready to build my first prototype."

With that, he ran after B.J., Longmore staring after him.


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Present**_

"Okay, so Hawkeye figured out what exactly from this venture?" Margaret asked.

"He was still convinced that the truck had been tampered with, but he was going to need a different psychic tactic if he was going to get any real answers."

"Or…" Margaret said, reaching into her desk and pulling out her badge. "Maybe just one of these."

B.J. straightened up – working with the legit cops had its benefits.

"Let's go see this Garth Longmore."

When they reached the shop, Margaret made her presence known, holding her badge high and yelling loud and clear over the noisy equipment. "Okay, listen up! I am Detective Margaret Houlihan, and I'm looking for a Garth Longmore. Anyone want to step up?"

Someone stepped up, but it definitely wasn't Longmore. This guy had a full head of hair, no glasses, and was thickly built. "Longmore quit just yesterday. He ain't here."

"He quit?" B.J. exclaimed. "He just started."

"Yeah," the guy said, disappointed. "Hell of a mechanic on top of it."

"Did he give a reason for quitting?" Margaret asked.

"Judging by the car he pulled away in, maybe he won the lottery."

 _That's a no._ "What kind of car was he driving?"

"'70 yellow Roadrunner."

"Is this supposed to be a nice car?" B.J. asked.

Margaret and the mechanic stared at him.

"What? Don't look at me, I drive an Echo!" he protested defensively. In hindsight, though, based on the lottery comment, it was still a stupid question. _Forgive me for being a bit distracted right now. It's only my lifelong best friend who's lost and bleeding in somebody's trunk._

The mechanic gestured at his shirt. "Son, are you wearing children's pajamas?"

B.J. drew his coat closed over his pajamas, hugging it shut. "Can we move on, please?"

Margaret pursed her lips sympathetically.

"Did he leave a forwarding address or anything?" B.J. plowed on.

"No," the mechanic said. He crossed his arms. "But if you find him, let me know, because he walked off with my mig gun."

"He had a gun?" B.J. demanded.

"No!" Margaret reassured him quickly. "No, no, no, it's not a gun, it's a _mig_ gun. It's used for welding." She turned to the mechanic, taking B.J.'s arm to lead him away. "All right, thank you."

The mechanic stared after B.J. as they left, bemused.

-SBPD-

Running. Still running. More running. Why was it always running?

Adrenaline still raced through Hawkeye's veins, but blood still trickled down his chest and back. He was exhausted, shocky and cold and struggling. Every step reverberated through the hole in his shoulder, every impact with a stray leaf felt like getting shot all over again. But between his ragged breaths, he could hear the shooter, still chasing determinedly after him.

He clung to his dad's advice, to those lessons he had hated all those years ago.

Now, they were all he had.

-SBPD-

 _ **1989, But A Different Day**_

Hawkeye followed Dad through the woods and back to the clearing where they'd parked the truck, both Potter-Pierces carrying a box of supplies and freshly-caught fish in one hand and their fishing poles in another.

"Hawkeye, what do you do when an assailant is chasing you?"

Hawkeye sighed. _So much for a simple day of fishing._ "Do we have to do this? You really don't like me, do you?"

Dad put his stuff in the truck's bed, reaching to take Hawkeye's stuff as well. "One day, you'll thank me. Go!"

At the pat on his back, Hawkeye bolted for the trees.

Dad called after him. "Once you get some distance, change your course. Never run in a straight line! A straight line is the shortest distance between two people. Zigzag, zigzag! That's right, atta boy, throw them off their course!"

 _Well,_ Hawkeye thought as he continued fleeing from his "attacker," _at least I can run right._

-SBPD-

 _ **Back Into The Present Woods**_

Hawkeye zigged and he zagged, but _damn_ , this guy was persistent. He didn't have the strength to keep running, not for much longer. Even his brain was slowing down, worn by the stress and lack of sleep – he was wasting precious heartbeats deciding when to zig and when to zag. And Longmore was gaining.

Taking a chance, Hawkeye threw himself down by a massive tree, pressing down behind its bulging root. He bit down on his jacket to silence his heavy breathing, trembling as he waited.

The footsteps pounding closer seemed to take an eternity to reach him.

They stopped. Hawkeye pressed deeper into his meager shelter, hoping. _Please leave, please leave, please please_ please _leave-_

And then they pounded on by.

He waited a few moments more, waited for the footsteps to vanish into the distance. Then he released his jacket with a gasp of pain, panting for breath. He touched his shoulder, barely fighting back a whimper – definitely still bleeding a bit. But it did seem to have slowed – maybe he wouldn't bleed out today.

So maybe he could just… just take a minute… and lie there… and close his eyes… just for a minute…

-SBPD-

"All right, this is the area," Winchester said. "There's construction for the next six miles."

Sherman looked out of the window, studying the signs. "There's our 'peac sig'," he said, noticing a yellow caution sign with a white peace sign spray-painted onto it. This was the one time he was happy for vandalism.

"It's a peace sign," Winchester realized.

"Yeah, that's what Hawkeye saw," Sherman confirmed, looking to the next sign. "Whoa, whoa, wait – yellow reflector."

"Orange cone," Winchester said as they passed an orange construction cone.

A glint on the ground caught his eye. "Stop, stop," Sherman ordered. "Stop the car right here."

"Why?"

"Just stop it!"

Winchester slammed on the brakes, spinning the car in a tight U-turn and skidding to a halt on the same side of the road as the signs, facing back towards them. "God, I love new brakes."

They jumped out, Sherman beelining straight for the colored glints he had seen. "What are we looking at?" Winchester asked.

Sherman crouched, picking up the largest shard of red glass from the small scattering of similar shards – a broken brake light. "This was from the car Hawkeye was in."

"Sherman, there are accidents up and down this highway-"

"No! No, this is Hawkeye," he insisted, clutching the shard, holding it up between him and the head detective's skepticism. His son was alive and fighting, and this was the undeniable proof.

It was also proof that not all of his lessons had been wasted on Hawkeye. Thank God.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm the one who taught him how to do it."

-SBPD-

B.J. crossed his arms tightly, pacing in front of Margaret's desk. The warm yellow walls and reddish-orange floors, filled with the familiar hustle and bustle of uniforms bringing in criminals, visitors coming to bail out family members, detectives shuffling through paperwork, and clerks answering phone calls brought him no comfort. Hawkeye should've been there, flirting with Margaret, making a big scene with a "vision," screwing with Winny.

Instead, there was only professional order. And it was _wrong_.

"This is all I have on Longmore," Maragaret said.

B.J. darted around her desk to look at her computer screen. "Does he have a record?"

"Only record he has is of being dead," Margaret sighed.

"What do you mean?"

"Garth Longmore died in 1956," she read off. "Criminals do this all the time, they buy the social security numbers off the deceased on the black market. Clearly, he didn't want anyone to know in that shop who he was or what he wanted with those trucks. Do you guys have any idea what you've stumbled onto?"

 _The usual mess. Just this time, Hawkeye couldn't get away from the gun._

-SBPD-

Charles's phone rang. "What have you got for me, Houlihan?"

She explained the problems with Longmore's identity. "All right, so we don't know the guy's name, but he's definitely our bad guy. Have any leads?"

" _All we got is that he was last seen driving off in a vintage 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner, yellow with black racing stripes. Have you seen it?"_

Charles glanced at the broken shards. "We may have seen part of it."

Potter didn't seem to be paying attention to the phone call, squinting off into the woods. "Yellow reflector is the last clue that Hawkeye left, which means he must've escaped from the trunk somewhere around here. He's close."

There was an insistence in Potter's eyes, a certainty… a desperation. He truly believed that Pierce was close, and Charles couldn't fail to follow through on that certainty. Not when it was his fault he had to feel that desperation. "All right, Houlihan, listen: Tell Radar to take another uniform and come pick up my car. It's off 166 just past mile marker 8. Tell him if he touches _anything_ other than the _door handle_ and _ten and two_ on the wheel, I will _personally_ visit his nightmares for _all of eternity_. Copy?"

"Copy that," she said in a way that made him believe she hadn't really listened to the threat.

 _Damn you, Hawkeye. Always making everything harder than it has to be._ "Because Potter and I are going it on foot." _I hate going it on foot._

Potter nodded sharply. "Let's go find my son."

-SBPD-

Hawkeye started awake to the sound of a truck horn blaring not too far off. He looked around at the woods, seeing the sunlight streaming down through the trees. _Crap. How long was I out?_

He pushed himself up, only to fall back with a cry of pain as his shoulder stretched. _Son of a_ bitch _, why do movies portray it like gunshots are bearable? This hurts!_

But he couldn't give in, not again – if Longmore was still out there, searching for him... No, he couldn't stay put, no matter how much moving hurt. Grunting in pain at every movement, he staggered upright, pausing only to tear off a strip of his shirt and tie it to a stick at eye-level before stumbling through the woods. He headed for the car noises – cars meant people. People meant transportation and phones. Damn it, why had he left his phone in the trunk?

When he reached the road, there were no cars in sight. But thank god, there was a gas station. It was rusty and rundown, the complete opposite of a big brand name, and certainly not somewhere he'd want to stop on a road trip, but for this, it would do.

He ran to the door, but when he tried it, it was locked. He knocked frantically, leaning against it to stay upright. "Hello? Anybody in there? I could- could use some help out here. Oh, come on," he pleaded in a breath. _Don't let me be alone again._ "Open up if you're in there!"

And finally, _finally_ , after what felt like an eternity, he saw movement. "Oh, oh thank you, thank you," he gasped as a greasy man opened the door, his dark hair hanging down to his chin. "I've been shot, and I'm being chased. Could you call the, uh, Santa Barbara Police Department and ask for Detective Charles Winchester?"

The man was nodding, looking concerned but not really moving to help.

"I'm sorry," he rambled, "I'm getting blood on your door-" _You don't have time for apologies._ "My name's Hawkeye Pierce. Or, well, I guess it's actually Benjamin Potter-Pierce, but-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," the man urged, taking hold of his uninjured arm. "Slow down."

Maybe it was the kind voice, or the supporting touch, even though neither gesture quite sat right with him for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, but he did. A little. "We should hurry, because he's really motivated."

"I got a phone right here," the gas station guy said, reaching for a landline. He was holding Hawkeye's arm _really tight_. Did he look that bad? He felt that bad. "Now tell me again, who am I calling?"

"Detective Charles Winchester," Hawkeye said, enunciating the name as best he could. He glanced over his shoulder.

Just as he saw Longmore running out of the woods, gas station guy slammed the phone into the back of his head.

Stars burst across his vision. He was unconscious before he hit the pavement.


	4. Chapter 4

This time, he woke up to an argument. "You really are incompetent, aren't you? _Aren't you_?" gas station guy yelled.

Hawkeye screwed his eyes shut, trying to clear his blurry vision. His head now throbbed in tune with his shoulder, every heartbeat sending a spike of pain through both injuries. _I should've waited for someone to find me…_

"You couldn't do one simple thing without screwing it up! It's the same as it was in the joint."

"He surprised me, all right?" Longmore defended himself. "I had no choice."

They were in the gas station's small garage. The floor was concrete, the lighting shadowy at best, the walls lined with rusty shelves and work tables, every single one chaotic and cluttered and therefore seemingly useless as actual work areas. And Hawkeye was duct taped yet again, this time to a chair via his waist and ankles, his hands pulled behind his back.

And now there was a chamois taped to his shoulder. Outside of his shirt. And not covering the exit wound. What good was that supposed to do?

"Yeah, but then you couldn't just get him here, huh?" gas station guy challenged. Longmore threw his hands up, turning away with a huff. "How the hell do you escape from the trunk of a car?"

Hawkeye spoke up, his words slurring together thanks to what was probably a concussion on top of the blood loss. "In his defense, I think I'm the only kid whose father taught him how to kick out a taillight from the back of a trunk."

"Shut your face," gas station guy snapped. Ok, he really needed another name – no nametag, so maybe… Snape. Yes, Snape seemed like a good fit, with the pale skin and greasy hair and bulbous nose.

Hawkeye cleared his throat, letting Snape cow him into silence. It almost hurt, but for once, he was in the mood to care more about his physical wellbeing than his ego's wellbeing. Plus, if was going to try sweettalking one of his captors into helping him, he would have a better shot with Longmore, who was currently huddled defensively under his partner's glare.

"What if I didn't make it back here in time after having to go pick up your car you just left on the road, huh? Idiot! Did you at least get the truck set?"

"It's ready, jeez, give me some credit," Longmore muttered.

"We're _this close_ to the money, and you're screwing it up. We don't need this distraction, not now," he said, looking to Hawkeye. "I say we just shoot him in the head and dump the body and get on with this."

Oh, waiting to sweettalk was definitely _not_ an option now. "Uh, guys, if I could interject briefly here – and this is me speaking from my own experience – this feels a little rash. You're both under a great deal of stress, and I don't think now is the time to make important life decisions."

He had their attention, dubious and irritated and potentially deadly though it may be. "Now, I'll tell you what works for me, and maybe it's- maybe it's just me: Draw a hot bath. It doesn't matter who goes first-"

Snape grabbed his gun, advancing quickly towards Hawkeye. "You got a smart mouth, huh?"

Longmore rushed forward. "Whoa, look, I got it under control! You want me to shoot him right now myself? I will, I'll take him out-"

 _Please don't shoot me. Again._ "Not to be a stickler, but you did- you did shoot me once already."

Snape bent in closer, hitting his gun against Hawkeye's uninjured shoulder. "Are you listening to me?"

"I'm having a hard time concentrating on anything but the gun," Hawkeye pointed out. _Please don't shoot me again, please don't, I really don't wanna die in this dingy garage._ "Could be my A.D.D. acting up."

Snape moved the gun, pressing it up underneath Hawkeye's jaw. "I want you to imagine a bullet coming from that gun, penetrating your skin, and lodging in your brain. You know how easy that would be for me?"

"Physically, yes," Hawkeye rasped. His heart was pounding, the pain of his concussion and gunshot wound suddenly nothing compared to the icy metal digging into his neck, and he _knew_ he should shut up, but damn it, he never did, he had to _try_. "But I would imagine that it would give you some pause emotionally…"

Snape cocked the gun, digging it in deeper.

"No?"

"You don't know how lucky you are," Snape hissed. "My idiot partner screwed up big-time. But that's par for the course. Now… I pull this thing off, and we're outta here. But if Einstein here screws up again, you're gonna be my ticket. Now I got a hostage in my back pocket, just in case. But know this – one stupid move, and I got more than enough plastic bags for your body parts. Got it?"

"I got it," Hawkeye whispered.

After a long moment, Snape stormed away.

Rather than let out a breath of relief, Hawkeye just mumbled, "Note to self: Call Hefty with commercial idea."

Longmore set to work, reaching for some tools and setting to work on a red car. Hawkeye took a breath, trying to make sure his voice wouldn't wobble or waver or shake or anything that would give away just how terrified he truly was right now. "Thanks for duct-taping my bullet hole with a chamois. Maybe if you could mail me to my dad's house now, that'd be- that'd be awesome."

 _Dad._

Was he out looking? Was he with Winny and Margaret, or had he been forced to go it alone? Was B.J. all right? Had he even woken up for the 4am message, or were they all hours behind his kidnapping? Or, if B.J. had gotten the message when he sent it, and if his dad was working with the cops…

Could he have avoided this by just staying still?

Longmore just eyed him disdainfully, then returned to his work.

"So, uh, what do I call you? Mr. Blonde? Mr. Pink?"

"Shut it!" Longmore snapped, though he was more frustrated than threatening. "God, what is your problem?"

Hawkeye glanced around, spotting a sheet of metal leaning against the wall. A square had been welded into it, along with something else – and the markings matched the downed ice cream truck. _More practice._

"You know, I, uh… I've heard people say that with gunshot wounds, it's- it's really all about the shock, you know? That at some point, you know, the bullet wound itself just goes numb, you can't feel anything." He shook his head. "Well, it's not true. I can say, without a doubt, that this is the most pain I've ever been in in my life. So if you wouldn't mind turning the other direction, I would very much like to weep, if that's ok."

"It's a flesh wound, all right?" Longmore said. "You're fine. Stop whining."

Hawkeye groaned, looking away. _Flesh wound shmesh wound, it still hurts._

He would need a different way of sweettalking Longmore. There was a bulletin board on the wall, covered in cards and pieces of paper. But there were some photos, and they caught Hawkeye's attention – first, an unfortunately shirtless, younger Longmore in a military camp with a massive rifle.

But wait… If Longmore was a sniper, then why…

He closed his eyes, remembering.

 _Hawkeye parked his motorcycle in the storage yard, then made his way to the ice cream truck. But before he could investigate it further, the armored truck one space up caught his attention – or, more specifically, the distinct flare of welding coming from underneath it._

 _Carefully, he moved forward. He had only taken a few steps, though, when it stopped without warning. Perplexed, he hesitated, wondering if he should run._

 _"Hey, what are you doing here?" someone demanded._

Too late.

 _Hawkeye spun around, spotting the gun pointed at him just before the flashlight blinded him. He threw his hands up. "Man, it is the darnedest thing! I, uh- the, uh- the Yelp application on- on my iPhone here told me that there should be a Starbucks, uh, right where we're stand- standing."_

 _The gunman was entirely unconvinced._

 _Hawkeye chuckled nervously, trying to shuffle backwards. "And unless, uh, you can make caramel macchiatos with that- with that pistol, then Yelp is- is dead wrong."_

 _"Stay where you are," Longmore ordered._

 _Hawkeye stopped shuffling. "Ok, easy man. Wait a minute," he said, squinting past the flashlight. "I know you, man – you're Garth Longmore. Though I'm beginning to suspect that's not your real name, is it? By the looks of you, I'd say it's probably something preppy, am I right? Maybe Ryan, or Geoffrey with a G."_

 _"I_ will _shoot you."_

 _"Just relax," Hawkeye said, calmly as he could despite his racing heart. "I mean, it's creepy enough out here without the whole gun-and-flashlight routine, don't you think? We can talk. We're just- We're just two guys talking, we're rational men speaking. I mean, I know what's going on here, and I get it. And- and- and it's an ingenious plan, to be honest. Of course, if it was me, I'd- I'd just be happy stealing the ice cream, you know?"_

Too far.

 _Longmore pulled the trigger, the bullet flying straight for Hawkeye's shoulder._

He opened his eyes.

Longmore was a sniper. A sniper who hadn't killed Hawkeye from pointblank range. _That's what I'll use._

"So, uh, what was it like over there?" he asked. "The jungle?"

Longmore looked up slowly. "What are you talking about?"

"Combat. Must've been hell, huh?"

Longmore straightened up. "How did you know?"

"Oh, I'm a psychic," Hawkeye explained as Longmore came towards him. "Yeah, that's what I do."

"Huh," Longmore said, his interest definitely piqued.

"I think between the gunshot and- and the head bashing, my visions are coming in kind of-kind of crazy, but I can see them. They're clear. They're sharp. I see _you_. Were you, like, special forces, or a- or a sniper?"

"Oh yeah, yeah, I was!" he said eagerly – Hawkeye got the feeling he wasn't really allowed to talk about his life with Snape. "I… I was with L.R.R.P."

"L.R.R.P.?"

"Yeah, Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol! Yeah. It was a long time ago, though."

"My skills have no time clock," Hawkeye boasted. _Literally, my dad's been making me hone them since forever._ "So, you could probably take a target from… what? 800 yards?"

Longmore scoffed. "Eh, 1,200, if the wind conditions are right, 1,500 possibly."

"That's impressive," Hawkeye praised.

He played it off. "Some- some people get pretty good at that stuff."

Hawkeye tilted his head, looking straight up into Longmore's eyes, hardening his tone. "It does beg the question – why didn't you kill me from three feet?"

Longmore tried to harden his expression, licking his lips nervously.

Hawkeye pressed the advantage. "We both know you could've, but you didn't. I suspect it's because you're not really a killer, are you? At least… at least, not anymore."

"I think it's time for you to stop talking," Longmore warned, turning away, eyes darting aside to check for Snape. "No more talking."

Hawkeye watched him return to work, then let his head droop. Sweettalking wouldn't work – Longmore was too scared of Snape. He wouldn't be ditching the plan, or turning on Snape, or trying to sneak Hawkeye out. But. He'd also made no threat to shoot, not even a fake reach for a gun, despite Hawkeye's insolence – Longmore had just confirmed he wasn't a killer. As long as he was the only criminal in the room, Hawkeye wouldn't get shot. He had time, then.

Just… time for what, he didn't really know.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherman ran through the woods, trying to follow the path Hawkeye would've taken. Zigzag, zigzag, zigzag – but not too much. He would've been bleeding, exhausted, hurting. His fist clenched at the image, wanting nothing more than to punch the living daylights out of anyone who would shoot the joy off his son's face.

Hawkeye never stopped joking. In fact, when joking was _especially_ inappropriate, he only joked harder. It annoyed Sherman to no end, but at the same time, it was _Hawkeye_. His son. It was just how he coped. To not hear the endless stream of jokes… It was wrong. And he had missed them in the years they were feuding.

To think there was even a slim chance he might never hear them again, when they were finally repairing their relationship…

 _Focus, Sherman, focus._

Not that way – too much foliage. He would've wanted a clearer path, less risk of stumbling over his own feet. But this path was too straight, too clear – it would've gotten him caught in a heartbeat. So he took a third way, plowing forward.

But when he glanced over his shoulder, Winchester was staggering, and at the first hint of Sherman slowing the tiniest bit, he stopped, doubling over to lean on his knees. "Think you can pick up the pace, _Mr. Viability_?" Sherman snapped.

Winchester limped up the slight incline, pointing over his shoulder. "There is an excellent chance I was bitten by a tick back there; I could be going through the beginning stages of Lyme disease."

Sherman rolled his eyes. "Man up, Detective."

Winchester glared up at him, panting. "What is it? Steroids, right? You're juicing, aren't you?"

Sherman didn't answer, a flicker of blue catching his eye amidst the greens and browns.

Winchester took that as confirmation. "I knew it."

Sherman hurried over to the blue – a bloodstained scrap of plaid fabric affixed to a branch. He held it for a moment, this scrap of proof that his son had survived, and was still stable and free enough to leave such a clue. "He went this way," he told Winchester.

He took off, not giving Winchester another chance to protest.

-SBPD-

B.J. parked outside of the former dry cleaners that Hawkeye now rented as an apartment. He held open the red door for Margaret, and they stepped into the small building. There was a small table and a small shelving unit directly in front of them, with some chairs to the right in a makeshift living area.

"So this is where Hawkeye is living," Margaret mused, looking around the tiny place. It was only the one room, with a bathroom jutting into the middle of it, making the small, horseshoe-shaped space even smaller. Hawkeye's habit of not putting his things away didn't help either. "Odd that it takes him being shot and dragged away in a trunk for me to actually get an invitation."

"Technically, you didn't have an invitation."

"True," she allowed. She pointed at the logo still visible on the window. "This is the old Mee Mee's Fluff N' Fold?"

"Yep," B.J. said, moving deeper into the room. A CD rack, a popcorn machine below a dart board, and Hawkeye had kept the clothes conveyor for a closet. "Hawkeye got a good deal on the rent."

"Well, I hope so, it was a dry cleaners," she said, investigating the tiny assemblage of blender, crockpot, and saucers that served as Hawkeye's kitchen.

"Yeah, it's kind of his thing," B.J. explained, taking off his coat. "Last spring he stayed at the old Color Me Mine space. All the saucers you see here, he made. Besides," he added, turning on the conveyor to search for a shirt, "it has its advantages."

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"What? I'm not wearing these pajamas anymore."

"So you're stealing his clothes? He's not dead!"

"I'm not _stealing_ anything-" A familiar blue shirt caught his attention. Surrounded by other familiar shirts. "Holy- half these clothes are mine!" He grabbed a light purple dress shirt that his mother had gotten him. "This is _my_ shirt."

Margaret shook her head, brushing past him to reach the bathroom. "Ok, let's split up and comb the place. Hawkeye was here when he left you the message about the rehearsal, so maybe there are some clues as to what he was doing or what he was looking at that made him call you and drive down to that stockyard in the middle of the night."

B.J. moved out of her sight to change into the purple shirt. "You see anything?" he asked when she paused.

"Yeah…" she answered, sounding a bit disappointed. "I mean no," she corrected quickly. "Did Carlye move in?"

"What?" B.J. exclaimed. "No. This is Hawkeye, remember?"

"Right, right," she said slowly. "Well, has he been particularly aggressive about his hygiene, or has he been… cross-dressing lately?"

He glanced back to see her dropping an orange blouse with white polka dots, suddenly understanding her questions. "Oh, no, no," he assured her. He couldn't resist folding up a shirt thrown haphazardly over a chair. "I think they've officially reached the 'He has a drawer, she has a toothbrush' stage."

"Oh," she said. "And how's that going?"

B.J. shrugged, picking up a pamphlet. "Not too sure."

"Hmm," she said.

B.J. opened his mouth, ready to ask why she cared so much, until he realized where the pamphlet was sitting. "I think I found something."

"What?" she asked, suddenly all business as she hurried back to his side.

"Hawkeye grabbed this the other day from the auto shop when we were there. It was sitting here next to the phone – this is what he was looking at when he called! Look at the bottom."

He hurried to the open laptop, pulling up his browser while she read off, "Uh, 'Expert mechanics of all domestic and foreign vehicles. Engine work, transmissions, exhaust systems'-"

"No, below that."

"'Long-haul refrigeration, armored transport.' I- I still don't get the connection to the ice cream truck."

"I think Hawkeye did," B.J. realized. "I'm checking his history to see what his most recent web searches were Mentalist spoilers, a thumbnail of Billy Zane's hair- No, here we are: armored car/santa barbara/theft."

"Armored car theft," Margaret exclaimed, as if she was now mentally kicking herself for not seeing it earlier. "The ice cream truck was just the rehearsal!"

B.J. grabbed his coat and they ran out the door.

-SBPD-

"I know you said not to talk," Hawkeye started after too much agonizing, unbearable silence. His thoughts just kept running in circles, from wondering what would've happened if he hadn't moved to the pain in his shoulder and back again. "But I gotta be completely frank with you, man, it's always been an issue for me. You should've seen my report cards in grade school. I mean, I like to talk out loud when I'm working stuff out in my head, that's what I do. Just feel free to ignore me, ok?"

Longmore barely glanced up from trying to fix the broken taillight. How he expected to do that without a replacement light, Hawkeye didn't actually know.

"This is a really elaborate plan you guys have going here. I mean, you got the job as a mechanic just to have access to the truck, right? That's smart. Then, instead of reinforcing the bottom, you actually weakened it, creating easy access to get to the money. The question is, how are you gonna get to it while the truck was still moving, right?"

Longmore glared at him.

"Sorry, man. Like I said, this is all me, just pretend like I'm not even here. You tip it!" he realized. "That's what you do, you tip it over. Once the car's tipped over, you just- you just crowbar open the trapdoor and you make off with the dough. Then you light it up to cover the evidence and get right on out of there. But this time, it's not about ice cream. I mean, you could still get one after, if you'd like. But it's gonna be real, man- the armored car, the money. Question is, where is it gonna go down? And when?"

"What do you care?" Snape snapped, walking in to catch the end of his speech. "You'll be dead."

Longmore leveled him an "I told you so" look.

Hawkeye struggled not gulp in terror.

-SBPD-

Sherman emerged from the woods across the street from a gas station. Great, people – maybe they had seen something. He marched across the street, passing underneath wind chimes made from wrenches. Who made wind chimes with wrenches?

Winchester marched into the lead, pulling his suit jacket back on. "Let me do all the talking, understood?"

"All right," Sherman agreed tersely, already looking to the greasy-haired man stepping out of the station.

"Howdy," he greeted, walking past them to tend to one of the pumps. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"We're looking for a yellow vintage Plymouth," Sherman told him, turning his back on the station to talk to him. "You seen it?"

"Oh yeah, as a matter of fact, I have," he answered, leaning back on the pump. "You don't forget a car like that. Pulled in about ten minutes ago, looking for gas, but we haven't sold that in years. Offered to fix his broken taillight for him, though, me and my partner got a nice little mechanic busine-"

"Yeah," Sherman interrupted, having no patience for this man's life story. "Did you happen to see who was driving?"

"Yeah, I got a look at him – a big oafy-looking guy. Not sure he had all his marbles. He was kind of stupid, if you ask me. I sent him up the road four miles to the next station."

Sherman pulled a photo of Hawkeye from his wallet, showing it to the man. "Was this man with him?"

He shook his head. "Uh, no, that guy wasn't with him, no. Why, is that guy wanted or something?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Sherman answered.

Winchester spoke quickly. "All right, well, thank you-"

Sherman overrode him. "Thank you for your time."

"About four miles-"

"You say that was ten minutes ago?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you," Sherman said, marching ahead with Winchester's glare burning a hole in his back.

"What the hell was that all about?" Winchester demanded, taking his phone from his pocket. "I said I was going to ask all the questions."

"Old habits," he said dismissively, looking back over his shoulder. He felt… something. Something bugging him. The urge to tear through that entire station looking for his son.

But no, no he couldn't. Longmore had a car and a ten-minute head start on them. They had to leave now, and they had to hurry.

"Cut it out, all right?" Winchester snapped. " _I'm_ in charge of this investigation. God, it's just like working with Hawkeye." He made the call back to the station. "Yes, Radar, put out an APB on the Plymouth and alert all authorities to patrol the 166 off the Horse Creek exit."

Sherman's gut kept screaming at him. He paused again to obey it, turning back and staring at the place. Had that man been too specific, too forthcoming with all of those details? Had he been too eager to divert them from the station? But he hadn't been lying when he said Hawkeye wasn't with Longmore…

 _Then again, he wouldn't be. If Hawk managed to escape, and ran here looking for help, but that man is Longmore's partner…_

"Do you have more questions you wish to ask?" Winchester groused. "Come on, Chatty Cathy, we are wasting time."

Sherman gave himself a mental shake – catch up to Longmore. That was the important bit.

He shoved past the limping detective. "Want me to carry you?"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Y'all gonna hate me for this one :)

* * *

Hawkeye had stayed silent after Snape's newest threat. Longmore was just going to close off every time he got too close, and if Snape caught them talking, caught Longmore seeming soft one more time… He decided to focus instead on working the duct tape around his wrists, as subtly as he could.

Until movement outside caught his eye. He squinted at the pair of approaching figures, trying to determine if they were friend or foe.

As they came closer, hope flooded his heart.

 _Dad. Winny._

He opened his mouth, ready to do what he was best at – make noise. Lots of noise. Screaming their names with absolutely no shame. Scream like a little kid in his first haunted house because damn it, he was tired and hurting and scared and tired of being hurt and scared and _he just wanted to go home_.

But no sooner had he sucked in a breath than Snape was hissing a warning and Longmore was behind him, clamping a hand over his throat, choking the scream before it could start. Snape stepped outside, intercepting Dad and Winny before they could get too close to the window. He even led them away, making them turn their backs on Hawkeye.

 _No. No, no, no, they are_ this close _, they can't- I have to-_

Hawkeye struggled, tugging on the tape binding his hands and ankles. He sucked air past Longmore's strangling fingers, trying to fill his lungs enough to yell. All that came out were broken gasps. "Ch- Charl-"

 _Turn around,_ he begged. _Come on, Dad, just turn around! Please! Winny, come on, follow that detective gut of yours. Come on, just- just_ turn- _DAD!_

They never did.

They turned.

Only to leave.

Longmore released him. He doubled over, coughing hoarsely, but he hardly cared about his breathing. He clenched his eyes shut, holding back the burning tears. _Do not cry Pierce, do_ not _cry, this- this isn't the end-_

Snape gestured sharply for Longmore, summoning him out to start yelling at him. "Because of your screwup, now we got the cops and what I figure must be this guy's old man snooping around."

"What's the big deal, man? They took off," he defended himself.

 _Don't rub it in,_ Hawkeye thought bitterly, yanking at the tape around his wrists. He was alone for the first time, he couldn't waste this chance.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, because _I_ was thinking on my feet! If you can't take care of this, I'm gonna. Kid should've been dead an hour ago."

 _No, no he should_ not _have._

"Fine, fine, fine," Longmore grumbled.

"Yeah, yeah. 'Fine, fine, fine,' you nimrod. You gonna do it or not?"

With a final yank, Hawkeye's hands snapped free. He gasped in relief, rubbing his wrists, but he couldn't savor the moment. He searched around, looking, looking- Aw, that was a sweet photo of Longmore and a smoking hot redhead. His girlfriend?

"What do you want?" Longmore snapped. "I did what I was supposed to do."

There- his phone, lying on a table across the room. Wait. Why was it ringing? Well, buzzing, he'd turned the ringer off. He squinted at it. Blocked number.

"No, no, no, you idiot, you did not!"

Whatever. Whoever was on the other end wasn't currently arguing about whether or not to kill him, so they were infinitely preferable to his current company.

"Yeah, I did!"

The buzzing made it slide off the table, clattering to the ground. Hawkeye just had to get over there…

"Get in there and do it!"

There. On the floor, conveniently right next to him, was one of those flat scooter things mechanics used to roll under cars. What had Dad called them – creepers? That was a weird name.

"Jesus, of all the people I could get linked up with, I get a rocket scientist like you," Snape complained. "Yeah, you want the money, you better step up."

His wounded shoulder was about to take the brunt of the landing, but he didn't have a choice. He shoved against the table next to him, tipping himself over onto the creeper. It took a mixture of pulling with his hands and pushing with the one foot that could reach the ground, but he managed to grab the phone before the call ended.

"Hello? Hello?" he gasped. _Please be someone even vaguely helpful._

 _"Hawkeye."_

"Bethany?" _Crap._

 _"Look, I'm sorry I hung up on you. It was immature, I know, it's just my feelings were hurt because I never heard back from you-"_

Hawkeye glanced up, praying neither kidnapper would walk back in. "Shh, it's fine, it's fine, it's fine!"

"Get in there!" Snape ordered when Longmore didn't move.

He only had seconds. "Look, it's really, really important that you call the p-"

 _"More important than my feelings?"_ Bethany demanded. _"You are so self-centered!"_

"No, Bethany, don't-"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Longmore demanded, suddenly standing over him.

"It's not what you think, it's not what you think," Hawkeye lied desperately, holding his hands up placatingly, defensively.

"Give me that," Longmore hissed, snatching back the phone.

"I swear, I swear!" he pressed. "I wasn't calling the police or anything like that. Look, man, I know this doesn't end well for me, ok? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and… I've made my peace with that." _No I haven't._

But about the next part, he didn't mean to lie. The words just slipped out, in complete contradiction to the fact that he'd crushed on Carlye since high school. "But recently, I met a girl, somebody special, just like you did."

 _Did I- Did I just refer to Margaret? I think- I think I did._

 _Have I even thought of Carlye since I got shot? Nope. Basically everybody_ but _her…_

 _Funny, the things you realize when you're bleeding on a filthy garage floor under threat of imminent death._

"Just like me?" he asked suspiciously.

 _God, please let me be right about that redhead._ "Yeah, I saw her in a vision. She's beautiful. She's got, uh- she's got red hair, right?"

"Yeah, most beautiful hair I've ever seen," Longmore said, longing creeping into his softening voice.

 _But if he knows Margaret somehow, knows she's a cop – I can't say her name. And now is not the time for injury-induced love confessions._ "My girl's name is Carlye. What's yours?"

Longmore glanced out of the room, checking for Snape. "Um, Maureen."

"Maureen Houlihan?"

He chuckled. "No, better."

Hawkeye chuckled too, but it petered out into a grimace of exhausted pain. The adrenaline was fading, the surges becoming more useless as this whole ordeal wore on. How long had it been since he'd slept? Like, properly, not because he had passed out from pain and blood loss? "Look, I just want to call her and say goodbye."

Longmore checked for Snape again. "That's it, no funny business."

"You can watch me dial, you can listen in," Hawkeye said. "If I say anything – _anything_ – that you don't like, you can shoot me. Deal?"

"Count on it. I _will_ shoot you."

 _Yeah, you've said that before._ But he only thanked him as he took his phone back, counting on him watching for Snape rather than who he was dialing as he searched for Margaret's contact.

-SBPD-

"I found something!" Radar exclaimed, moving to Margaret's desk.

Margaret darted back to her desk, setting down her half-eaten sandwich to listen to the officer. He held up the paper he'd just printed out, showing it to her and B.J. "Looks like there's a large transfer of money to be delivered from one bank to another, close to $500,000." He handed it to Margaret. "That's the schedule and route."

Margaret opened her mouth, ready to tell B.J. to call Sherman, when her phone rang. She looked down, expecting to see her partner's name. She didn't.

"Hawkeye!" she all but shrieked, snatching the phone up and slamming the answer button.

 _"This call is… to say goodbye."_

It was definitely Hawkeye. But she had never, _never_ heard him sound so serious. He was always joking, always the one to take the serious moments and inject his own brand of sunshine into them. It could be annoying, and often ill-timed, but she had gotten used to it these last three and a half years. And this day without it, without knowing if she'd ever hear his jokes again…

"Hawkeye, are you ok?"

B.J. hovered next to her, probably barely resisting the urge to grab the phone for himself. "Try to get anything, a location."

"Hawkeye, where are you?" she asked.

 _"Don't… don't ask me any questions, cause I can't say anything else. If you care about me, you'll understand."_

 _If I… He doesn't question that, does he?_

She sank into her chair. "I'm listening," she promised, fighting to keep her voice from wobbling.

 _"I'm not gonna be able to have much of a future anymore,"_ he admitted. And she wanted to cut him off, to say _No, we_ will _find you_ , but he just wanted her to listen. _"But if you look back at where we were, I'll be there, ok?"_

 _Clues,_ she realized. _He's trying to drop clues._ "Back? I don't know what that means, Hawkeye. What are you talking about?" _Just give me something I can use, something I can use to find you._

 _"The wind chimes that I got you for your birthday,"_ he continued. _"Every time you hear them from now on, that'll be me."_

She had to keep this professional, give him time to give her more clues, but- he was _scared_. The _despair_ in his voice… She had to say something. "Ok, Hawkeye, first of all, you are going to be _fine_. We are going to find you, ok? Don't worry."

She heard a voice in the background, muffled and insistent.

 _"Listen, before- before I go, I have to say one more thing."_

"Of course, Hawkeye, what is it?"

 _"I- I need you to know that…"_ He hesitated, stumbling, struggling to get it out. _"I… I love you."_

Margaret nearly froze, blinking rapidly as her eyes started to water. "Uh… Hawkeye…" _Was that… was that real? But he's dating Carlye… But if he thinks he's going to die…_

 _Oh, just say it, Margaret. You did ask him out last year, you might as well make it official._

"Hawkeye, I think that I-"

 _"Goodbye, Carlye."_

She straightened abruptly. _Did he… did he mean to call her? Is he just acting?_ She remembered the voice in the background, her heart sinking in embarrassment. _Of course he's acting, Margaret, one of the kidnappers is right next to him._

 _That's not even what's important right now. Find him,_ then _have this crisis._

He hung up as she lowered the phone, so she missed what happened next.

-SBPD-

"Okay, this is supposed to be a goodbye call. Now tell her you love her, and let's go!"

Hawkeye closed his eyes. "Listen, before- before I go, I have to say one more thing."

 _"Of course, Hawkeye, what is it?"_

 _Please don't make me say it. Don't make me do this to her._

"Say it," Longmore pressed.

"I- I need you to know that…" He swallowed. _I'm sorry, it wasn't supposed to get this far._ "I love you."

There was a pause, quick as could be, yet taking forever as her voice wobbled. "Uh… Hawkeye…"

 _Oh god, how do I get her to stop?_

 _You tear her heart out._

 _"Hawkeye, I think that I-"_

"Goodbye, Carlye."

She stopped cold, and he lowered the phone before they could dig this hole any deeper. _I'm sorry, Marge._

"Hang it up now, that's it!" Longmore hissed. "Hang it up!"

"That's it! It's done!" Snape yelled, marching up to Longmore. "How stupid can you be, letting him use a phone? The cops are probably on their way right now!"

Hawkeye shook his head desperately as Snape cocked his gun. "No, he was just calling his girlfriend, man!" Longmore protested.

"It's over!" Snape snarled, glaring down at Hawkeye. He raised his hands over his face, trying to surrender, as if that would stop him. "I'm putting an end to this."

Hawkeye clenched his eyes shut, ducking his head. _I'm going to die duct-taped to a chair._

A single gunshot tore through the room.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherman and Winchester were still making their way to the second gas station when Winchester got a call from Margaret. He listened for a minute, but he just ended up saying, "What?"

Sherman would've sighed if he'd been less focused on his son.

"Margaret, wait, slow down. Going back? Wind chimes? No, that doesn't mean anything to me!"

Sherman skidded to a halt, whipping around and grabbing Winchester's arm to stop him. "Whoa, wait! Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

He concentrated, thinking back to the gas station. Remembering the wrenches clanging in the breeze. "He's back at the gas station!"

 _Damn it, we were_ right there _._

 _And he just watched us leave him._

"Come on, come on!" he yelled at the detective, taking off again.

Winchester threw his empty hand up in annoyance but turned to follow. "Margaret, can you make it back to the Mariposa exit off the 166? There's a gas station two blocks up."

Another few moments and he hung up, managing to catch up to Sherman. "She said something about a robbery taking place near there, she'll explain later."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Sherman said, hardly able to care about some insured money when Hawkeye's life was on the line. "Just run, old-timer!"

They reached it at the same time B.J. and Margaret raced in with the Echo. Sherman slowed only reluctantly, letting the two armed detectives take the lead. B.J. stayed behind him as Winchester grabbed the door. He gave his partner a nod and threw the door open, letting her charge in to clear the place.

They went into the garage, Sherman on their heels. His heart stopped when he saw the body's feet, but he let out a relieved breath when he realized it wasn't Hawkeye. But when he didn't see his son, alive or otherwise, he ran his fingers through the remains of his hair, tugging on it in frustration.

 _We left him, and now he's gone._

"Longmore," B.J. said, staring at the kidnapper lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding from a wound in his stomach.

Margaret lowered her gun, glancing to the others. "Where's Hawkeye?" she whispered.

For a moment, her horror just echoed through the silent room.

"We're going after him," Sherman stated. He crouched, reaching for the discarded phone on the ground, turning it over to brush his thumb over the familiar Psych logo. "Get Radar to get your car over here, Winchester."

"I called him on the way here," Margaret said as a siren wailed closer. "And an ambulance. I thought it would be for Hawkeye, but…"

"We'll call a second one," Winchester said. "Let's do this!"

They rushed outside, meeting Radar as he hopped out of Winchester's car, the head detective rambling off orders. "Houlihan, stay close, you know the drill."

She nodded. "Keys," she said, holding her hand out to B.J.

"Whoa, I'm not covered for someone else driving my car," he protested.

"I'm a police detective and a certified pursuit driver, I think you'll be ok. _Keys_ , B.J."

His concern for Hawkeye won out over his sensibility. As Sherman dropped into the passenger seat of Winchester's car, he slammed his keys into Margaret's hand and hurried to his own passenger side. Tires squealing, both cars raced away from the gas station, kicking up dust in their wake.

-SBPD-

Wind whipped through Hawkeye's hair as Snape's dingy red truck barreled down the highway. He'd been tied up with actual rope this time – he was learning. But at least there was no one to guard him, and he was in the open bed – someone would see him, or he would get the rope undone and hop out as soon as it was relatively safe.

Sunlight glinting off distant metal caught his attention. He shifted, preparing to lift his hands and yell for help.

 _Wait. Is that-_

A little, bright blue Echo racing up alongside a dark blue detective's car that was blatantly ignoring the yellow lines.

"Oh, thank god, they got my clues. Yeah! Go team!"

Winny swerved back into the right lane as a random truck came down the other way, steadily pulling ahead of the Blueberry. He noticed with a prick of relief that his dad was riding shotgun. When it passed, he pulled back into the wrong lane, speeding up to drive alongside Hawkeye's truck. He worked harder to undo the rope.

Snape saw them and swerved into them, forcing Winny to swerve away, kicking up dirt as his left tires left the road. Hawkeye yelped as the movement slammed his shoulder into the truck bed. Margaret came up on the truck's other side, B.J. riding shotgun. "That must've killed him- Is that my shirt?"

He shook his head, returning to pulling at the ropes. _Not important right now._

Finally, the ropes came undone. He threw them off, hauling himself onto his feet, but staying low to keep his balance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape glancing back at him, mouth twisted into a frustrated snarl. He must've knocked his gun onto the floor, because he disappeared below the window to reach for it, swerving violently towards Margaret as he did so.

Hawkeye slammed into the truck again, but managed to catch himself before he hit his shoulder. Still hurt like hell, though he wasn't going to show it now. "Whoo!" he yelled, leaning over to talk to B.J. over Margaret. "Look at you, buddy! You're like Vin Diesel!"

B.J. yelled back eagerly, throwing himself into the reference with boundless joy, much to Margaret's irritation as he practically yelled in her ear. "That makes Margaret Michelle Rodriguez, and you Paul Walker!"

 _Oh no._ "This is no good!"

"Don't worry, Hawkeye," B.J. rushed to reassure him, "you're gonna be all right."

"I know, I'll be fine." _Well, now I know._ "I just really don't wanna be Paul Walker, not even for one day."

Margaret's focus on her pursuit driving faltered as she stared at him like _Really? That's what you're complaining about right now?_

"You could be Lucas Black from Tokyo Drift, but then we wouldn't be in the movie with you," B.J. suggested.

"That's weird," Hawkeye said. "I'll just be Walker."

 _Ok, I gotta get out of this truck._ "You ready, buddy? I'm gonna jump on your hood."

Margaret sucked in a breath, but B.J. beat her to it. "You must be out of your damn mind, Hawkeye! It's a company car, jump on Winchester's! Sorry!"

 _Really? Really Beej? Fine, it'll be easier to land on Winny's car anyway. That's totally why he's making me jump on Winny's. And it'll annoy him. That's always fun._

Grumbling, Hawkeye turned to the detective's car. "Move closer!" he yelled, waving him over as he prepared to jump.

"No, _no_!" Winchester yelled. "Do not jump on this vehicle! This is a brand-new vehicle!"

Hawkeye slammed his hand on the edge of the truck bed. "Look, man, I have been shot! I am jumping on _somebody's_ car!"

"Hawkeye, no!" Dad yelled. "No, no, it's not safe-"

"I don't care!"

" _Pierce_ -"

With a courage-building scream, Hawkeye leaped.

He landed on the hood to the tune of Dad and Winny's horrified "Whoa!" They were perfectly in sync – he might've found it weirdly adorable and taken time to call them out on it if pain hadn't just ricocheted throughout his entire body. He pushed through it, grabbing the rearview mirror and crevice where the windshield wipers rested to hold himself in place.

"Stop the car!" Dad demanded.

"Don't you dare stop this car, Winny!"

"Hang on tight, hold on, hold on!" Dad said.

"Great idea, Dad, I was thinking of not doing that!" But _damn_ it was harder than it looked, especially with his shoulder screaming at him to let go.

Gunshots exploded on the other side of the truck, accompanied by B.J. yelling, "Lay back! Lay back!"

Air hissed loudly, and a moment later, the Blueberry was dropping back, its front left tire deflated. Although the fact that it had managed to keep up until then was a miracle.

Which left Snape able to focus his gun on Winny's car. With Hawkeye sprawled on the hood right next to the driver's side window, utterly defenseless.

"Gun it, old man!" Dad ordered.

"Watch this," Charles said. Hawkeye felt the engine rev, the powerful vibrations decidedly _not_ good for his shoulder, and then they were flying forward, just as Snape started firing. They just barely missed Hawkeye as he flinched behind the cover of the windshield. Winchester pulled out his gun, reaching across Dad to try to return fire, until Dad wrested the gun from him.

"Potter-Pierce, what the hell are you doing?" Winchester snapped.

"Which Potter-Pierce are you talking to?"

"It doesn't matter, you're the same person!"

"Am not!" Hawkeye protested.

Dad twisted awkwardly, trying to aim behind him. "Dad, I have a clear shot, give me the gun. Do it!"

Reluctantly, Dad handed it over. Bracing himself against the rearview mirror, Hawkeye aimed for the red truck's grill and fired once, twice, three times, four-

Smoke erupted from the grill as the truck slowed to a halt. Winchester spun his car around, coming to a halt blocking Snape's path forward. Hawkeye slumped forward, holding the gun out for Winny. He grabbed it and, hooking his fingers into Hawkeye's belt, he dragged the fake psychic off the hood, all but throwing him behind him and crouching behind the car.

"Drop it!" he ordered Snape. "Drop it now! Hands where I can see them! _Hands_!"

Snape tried to fire, but his magazine was empty. With a frustrated grunt, he dropped the gun and raised his hands. As Winchester moved in to grab him, Dad ran around the front of the car, and it took all of Hawkeye's meager remaining strength not to just melt into his arms. "Dad," he moaned.

"Come here," Dad said, guiding him back to the hood of Winny's car. Hawkeye slumped against it, and in that moment, nothing in the world was more comfortable than that warm metal surface. "Come here, son, that's it."

Winchester slammed Snape against the hood of his car, and Hawkeye shivered as Dad let go of him to help the detective cuff his kidnapper.

"Nice shooting, Detective," Winny said.

Hawkeye struggled to lift his head, his words slurring together as he spoke. "Did you just call me detective?"

Winny hesitated. "No," he mumbled.

Dad chuckled, but there was pride in his eyes as he looked at Hawkeye. And that _almost_ made _some_ of the pain worth it.

Hawkeye pointed back down the road. "Hey, shouldn't we wait for Diesel and Rodriguez before you slap the cuffs on him?"

Everyone turned around to see the Blueberry struggling to cover the distance between them. It was funny, in the most pathetic way, and Hawkeye almost laughed.

Except his knees picked that moment to buckle, and his sluggish fingers couldn't grip the hood fast enough to hold him up.

"Woah, woah! Easy," Dad soothed, catching him before he could hit the pavement.

Hawkeye groaned, sinking down the rest of the way. Crap, Winny was going to kill him for bleeding on his car…

"I will shoot him if he tries anything," Dad said.

He'd said that out loud?

"Yes, yes you did," Winchester said, pushing Snape into the backseat. "I'll shoot you after you're out of the hospital."

 _Hospital…_ "Longmore," he said. "Is he…?"

"He's alive," Dad said, drawing him into a hug. Hawkeye flinched away when he tried to look at his shoulder.

"Why do you care?" Winchester asked, slamming the door shut in Snape's face with far more force than was necessary. _Aw, he does care. He doesn't get that angry for just anyone._ "He shot you."

He lifted a heavy hand to gesture at his feebly bandaged shoulder. "He tried to protect me… sort of."

Dad caught his hand before it could smack down against the pavement. Winny knelt beside him, peeling back the chamois and shirt. Hawkeye gritted his teeth against a moan, turning his head away from the detective, that heavy hand clutching Dad's arm. All of the pain that had managed to subside came flaring back full force as Winchester tore Hawkeye's sleeve off, ripped it in half, and pressed the two halves against his bullet wounds.

"Easy, easy," Dad soothed. "Is an ambulance on its way?"

"Yeah," B.J. answered. Hawkeye sucked in a breath, forcing himself to look up. The Blueberry had finally reached them and its passengers had bailed, B.J.'s door still wide open.

"Beej!" he exclaimed, forcing brightness past his slurring words. "Look a' that, you left your car wide open for stealing for me."

"I did what?" He glanced back at the Blueberry, visibly resisting the urge to run back and close the door. "You know what, it doesn't matter. You good?"

Hawkeye flashed a thumbs-up. "There's a hole in my shoulder and my life rests in Winny's hands. I'm doin' great."

Margaret crouched beside him, cupping his cheek in her hand and offering up a reassuring smile. "You're safe now, Hawkeye. You're safe."

Leaned up against Winchester's car, propped up by his dad, guarded by the two detectives, and with B.J. starting to lecture him about the "stolen" clothes to distract him from the pain – or was he actually being serious? – Hawkeye smiled back. "I know."

* * *

A/N: So next week is the last chapter, but I don't have it finished and I just realized I'm actually leaving for vacation next Wednesday, so idk when it'll actually get posted. Could be early, could be on time, could be late. I'll do my best to get it posted before I go, but I've got a lot of fic commitments to finish up before NaNoWriMo starts, so sorry in advance if it is late


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